Did you know that the first hospital in the territorial Northwest was built by a woman, from scratch, according to her own design?
Eleven years ago today I was lying on my side in that very hospital (though obviously, not the same building) rapidly bleeding my way toward a transfusion, arguing about what to name the baby.
The nurse hesitantly suggested that we could discuss the matter after surgery, but I didn’t expect to survive the day, let alone the hour. Choosing a name before I lost consciousness was of paramount importance. A few minutes before they slashed me open to rescue him (without the benefit of modern niceties like, oh, anesthesia) we decided to just give him all five names under consideration.
Of course he couldn’t pronounce the mangle and went by the nickname Abbauntil age four.
That sensitive premature infant is now a broad-shouldered lanky youth almost tall enough to look me straight in the eye, though still young enough to curl up on my lap – even if we both topple over in the process.
The intervening years have involved all manner of adventure and mayhem, and he has responded exactly as you might have predicted knowing his infant self.
He gave up suits and bow ties recently but retains his essential style, and his quiet watchful good humour. Brilliant, precise, creative, with a sophisticated sly wit: this boy is a joy to know. I am honored that he is my friend. Happy birthday to the most charming young gentleman! Oh, and of course – his Hogwarts letter arrived right on time:
